<p><b>Mammogram Monster</b> </p><p>My Grandmother is inevitably a conqueror.</p><p>My Grandmother is inevitably a warrior.</p><p>My Grandmother is inevitably unstoppable.</p><p>And I strongly wish I had her boobs.</p><p>See, I have a theory that I was born with immense breasts </p><p>Because bras and cleavage</p><p>Have always been parts of my wardrobe and vocabulary.</p><p>And even now, there are some people who compliment my beautiful face</p><p>While staring a few degrees lower than they should.</p><p>But I don't like them. They're awkward and inconveniently placed</p><p>And when I go for a run they hit my face so</p><p>I don't understand why men gawk over them.</p><p>I don't understand why women pamper them.</p><p>The only thing I understand about them is mammograms.</p><p>When I was young I only knew that mammograms were evil things</p><p>That made Grandma scream and</p><p>Made everyone cry and</p><p>Magically put clippers in mama's hand and</p><p>Made her shave off her mother's hair.</p><p>I thought a mammogram was a disease that disfigured beautiful women.</p><p>But not my Grandma.</p><p>She still walked with a glorious attraction</p><p>Set to a superior level high above wig shopping.</p><p>There were days when she walked around without the padded restricted support.</p><p>And on days like that I thought about how special she must be.</p><p>That no undergarment company could fashion a bra worthy of her bosom.</p><p>Left side long. Right side short. Right side strong. Left side weak.</p><p>There was an odd balance between them that no seamstress could perfect.</p><p>But just the other night my mama told me that</p><p>The Mammogram Monster came back for round two.</p><p>And he brought with him a lump.</p><p>And that lump brought with it the possibility of her cancerous past resurrecting.</p><p>And I selfishly think to myself how I can't experience that.</p><p>To watch her heart break almost broke me</p><p>And I can't bare that type of pain. Not again.</p><p>Not again. So Grandma, I guess I wrote this to say that</p><p>I would trade my worthless rack with yours if it saves you tears.</p><p>I would give up these meaningless pieces of vanity if it takes away your pain.</p><p>If I could take the cancerous burden of your breasts off of your chest</p><p>Then I would gladly carry your load.</p><p>Even if it weighs me down to where I'm crawling on my knees</p><p>I would do it just to ease your heavy soul.</p><p>Grandma, you should know that you're a conqueror.</p><p>You're a warrior.</p><p>You're unstoppable.</p><p>And the Mammogram Monster may be able to touch your chest,</p><p>But he will never </p><p>Ever</p><p>Lay a finger</p><p>On your fighting Spirit.</p><p><b>Apologies</b></p><p>God forgive me. </p><p>These apologies are irritatingly irrelevant since they're belatedly flooding in.</p><p>I often question myself as to whether I'm a murderer or a spectator.</p><p>Either choice is disgusting and it nauseates me to know that I slowly watched him die</p><p> Just a little more; day after day.</p><p> I might as well have wrapped the rope around his neck myself.</p><p>I didn't loosen the tight grip around his happiness. </p><p>Instead, I silently listened to the dregs of the hope drain out of him.</p><p>Lord, I'm hesitant to say that I'm also a procrastinator.</p><p>Since his death, I keep telling myself to go see his family, but I'm too scared to see his baby sister.</p><p>I'm scared she'll look just like the brother she never met.</p><p>How could I look her in the face and tell her that I didn't stop to care?</p><p>I didn't see the torment that he went through, but I should've seen it reflecting on his face.</p><p>Pain radiating in the pools of his eyes, the evidence running down his cheeks.</p><p>There's not a day that I wake up wondering why I didn't stop to dry his tears.</p><p>My God! I'm sorry.</p><p>That sounds pointless and hollow and meaningless considering this apology is three years too late, but I'm desperately seeking reciprocity so that I can sleep peacefully again.</p><p>I know it's selfish, but this self-induced condemnation has been eating at my conscious since the day they pronounced him dead.</p><p>He took his own life before he even finished middle school </p><p>And I'm not saying the results are always that extreme, </p><p>I'm just asking you to listen.</p><p>What you say is not always harmless. </p><p>It's all fun and games until someone questions the worth of their own existence.</p><p>Ain't it a shame that people whisper because they're too scared to shout the things everyone should hear?</p><p>Ain't it a shame that I'm surrounded by this abuse on a daily basis?</p><p>It's a shame that we haven't learned anything from the thousands of teen suicides that we know how to prevent. Why are we too cowardly to do anything about it?</p><p>Robert. Robbie. Sweetie.</p><p>I'm sorry that it has taken me this long to understand the things you already knew.</p><p>But this is the last time I'll apologize,</p><p>Because your loss taught me not to let anyone else ever slip away.</p><p><b>Love like a song</b> </p><p>Hush little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.</p><p>And if that mockingbird don't sing, mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.</p><p>I don't remember ever physically being tucked in as a child</p><p>But I remember how, when the nightmares came, my mama's</p><p>“It's-gonna-be-alright” voice rocked me back to sleep.</p><p>And as I settled into my reckless oblivion</p><p>I began to think about how I come from a long line of women who were blessed with beautiful voices.</p><p>It made me wonder where the heck mine came from.</p><p>See, they sing like goddesses. </p><p>And I sing the screech of dying birds at the mercy of ally cats. Maybe even worse.</p><p>I often frightened myself with my tone deaf voice.</p><p>My inability to sing made me wonder if my child could ever love me like my mother's children love her.</p><p>Like I love you.</p><p>I would drift off into sleep with melodic tears streaming down my face,</p><p>Dotting my pillow and naturally plopping to the beat of my mother's words.</p><p>I often wondered how she could sing through her pain.</p><p>Or maybe the trick is not singing through it, but singing because of it.</p><p>Letting the pain be the power that turns frustrated cries into encouraging songs.</p><p>Maybe it's a technique only reserved for the strongest of women.</p><p>It's like my sister's hand me down clothes, maybe I just have to step in and grow.</p><p>And as I grow, I want to show my passion and affection.</p><p>I want to drizzle my daughters with sweet mocha love and satisfy their sweet tooth with my song.</p><p>Like an addiction, I want to string them out on hymns and hums,</p><p>Harmonies and rhymes. Tenors and Altos and maybe even Sopranos</p><p>If they need to get that high.</p><p>I want my children to love me with a song.</p><p>I want to vocally wrap them up and</p><p>Tuck them into bed and</p><p>Rock them to sleep with a voice</p><p>That rings it's-gonna-be-alright. Just close your eyes.</p><p>But I can't sing.</p><p>And when I voiced this concern to my mother she said</p><p>Either way, your voice has always been music to my ears.</p><p>And I fell asleep thinking that</p><p>Maybe my babies will be ok</p><p>With my paper and pencil duet singing them to sleep.</p><p>Tucking them in bed.</p><p>Rocking away their worries.</p><p>And I think that maybe just maybe</p><p>I can carry a decent tune after all.</p><p>Hush little baby, please don't cry.</p><p>Mama just wrote you a lullaby.</p>